"Stay until she sleeps," Jaxon ordered.
"I will," Brent said without looking up from the tablet. He already had the nanny roster open, the security feed on another screen, the evening schedule queued.
Jewel curled her legs under the embroidered blanket and watched Jaxon from the pillow ridge. He moved like he always did—careful, small adjustments, hands that never fumbled around children. Tonight his shirt sleeves were rolled, collar open, and his jaw held the same tight line it wore at meetings.
"Tell me the garden story," Jewel whispered.
Jaxon sat on the edge of the cot. He used the same word for the vegetables every time: "turnip," as if that single syllable could anchor a child through thunder and headlines.
"There was a turnip that refused to be pulled," he began, voice low and precise. "Everyone tried. They tugged. They argued. The turnip didn't like being told what to do."
"Then?" Jewel breathed.
"Then a small, stubborn hand reached in and pulled it free," Jaxon said. He set the blanket straight with one practiced motion. "Because sometimes the thing that looks impossible just needs the right person." He paused and looked at her. "You are the right person."
Jewel giggled. "Promise you'll marry me when I grow up."
The nursery stopped. Brent's pen clicked once and quieted. Jaxon's face changed in the way Lenore's photos sometimes did—soft for a fraction of a second, then back to controlled.
"You're my child," he
